


Winter

by roseluu (rowanscrown)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Soviet Union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 15:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12213318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanscrown/pseuds/roseluu
Summary: During the fall, Ivan tells a tale.





	Winter

_December 25, 1991._

They leave quietly, and Toris is alone.

There aren’t many things inside. This ballroom has been used for centuries. At midnight, precisely, when it is cleared out, the floors are waxed until the reflection of the oil paintings are blinding. This is a ballroom Toris has been inside many times, though it is always filled with ivory and glinting silver and jasper pieces. Sometimes, in early January, troika bells sing against the mantelpieces, and the dresses are long-sleeved for December's blue frost.

Today, though, there are no people. With every movement, every breath, an echo rebounds in Toris’ ears. There are no caterers, no buzzing conversation, no paper-thin glasses. Today, it’s just him and the creaking chair placed in the middle of the waxy, yellow dance floor.

Ivan enters gently.

 _You will not hurt them,_ Toris wants to say. It is something he has wanted to say.

Ivan wears too-heavy boots. He is dressed in his uniform, clinging to his arms, loose around his waist. Russia has not become smaller, but Ivan has.

Ivan’s hushed smile fits him like a clipped suit, thin and pale and curling under his nose. The chandelier paints heavy brush strokes under his eyes, and when Ivan unbuttons his stiff jacket and drops it to the floor, Toris allows his hand to be taken into his.

“Dance with me?” Ivan says.

Toris stands when Ivan tugs. They dance slowly to the leather steps of their shoes, ghosting around Ivan’s crumpled uniform and the mahogany chair. Toris waltzes curtly, the shallow pressure of Ivan’s palm fleeting over his waist, and for a moment he thinks it nothing more than a phantasm of his imagination - a cruel one. But, he’d made this choice, after all, and he knows something,  _something_ , will come about to crush it.

“Why have you come?” Ivan’s voice rasps slightly. “Why have you come here today?”

Toris dips his head back to let his bangs fall, watching Ivan’s eyes follow.

“I do not mind,” Ivan continues.

Toris’ says, “You’re ill.”

Ivan says, “They say I’ve gone mad. Do you think I’ve gone mad, Toris?”

“I don’t know.”

Ivan’s smile changes. This smile appears rarely, but not _too_ rarely. Back then, this smile meant Christmas would be momental with Ivan’s large fingers opening his door and gifting him kūčiukai in the brink of dawn when Raivis and Eduard were sleeping soundly.

“You are kind,” Ivan says.

Drifting to those doors, drifting elsewhere, maybe dangling lifeless in the chandelier or allowing Ivan to twirl his scarf around his neck, has the floor swaying. Distantly, Feliks tells him he is nothing but a fool.

“May I tell you a story?”

The rubber-scented leather of Ivan’s gloves fills his nose as he grips his fingers, lifts his hand to press his lips to his bare knuckles. Toris nods.

“Once upon a time, a merchant was preparing for a long journey,” Ivan says. “The merchant has three daughters. When asking them what they wanted as gifts to bring back, the first daughter pleaded for a golden crown; the second begged for a crystal mirror; and, the third requested for only ‘the little crimson flower.’”

They sway. “The merchant set off on his silly journey and had no trouble finding the crown and the mirror. But, he couldn’t find the crimson flower anywhere. After searching, he soon discovered a forest. Through the trees, he came across a palace with a beautiful courtyard, which had a crimson flower growing inside.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Toris asks.

“When the merchant picked the flower, a hideous beast bounded from the palace. He demanded the merchant send one of his daughters to reconcile the plucked flower. The youngest of the daughters, the one who requested the flower, agreed to live with the beast.

“For a long while, she lived peacefully. The beast never showed himself to the girl, but showered her with gifts and let her do as she pleased. The girl couldn’t help but grow fond of him and begged to see his face. When he did, she was disgusted.”

The weight of Ivan's hands become heavy.

“You used to tell me many of your tales,” Toris says quietly. "I know this story. There is no need to tell it."

“I will not be the same,” Ivan says. A resounding thrum builds its way into Toris’ chest, settling there in a steady burn as Ivan’s low voice carries into the walls. “One night, the girl had a dream about her father dying. The beast allowed her to see him if she returned in three days. When the girl found her father well and healthy, she planned to return to the beast, but her sisters had changed the clocks. Upon greeting the palace once again, late, she discovered the beast dead, gripping the crimson flower between his claws.”

“I know this story,” Toris says again. “I know this, everyone knows this. The girl confesses her love and breaks the spell, turning the beast into a prince.”

“They live happily ever after,” Ivan sighs. “But, what do you think would have happened if the girl never loved the beast?”

“He would be dead.”

“Ah.”

Toris shudders as Ivan sinks underneath his hands.

Ivan inhales, ragged and worn, and his smile pinches. “My people – my dying people – do they…think of me as a monster?”

Toris brushes his fingers over Ivan’s scarf as Ivan’s knees wobble in their waltz. “I don’t know, Ivan.”

“I could think of you as the daughter, Toris. The heartbroken daughter who declares her love, because you are needed and can love.” Ivan coughs once, and Toris smells the sting of vodka. “But…I can’t think of you as the daughter. No, no. Perhaps, you are the flower?”

“Perhaps, you are,” Toris says. "This is silly, Ivan."

Midnight is pouring through the drawn curtains as the clock strikes, and the golden hues mix into a steady rain of silver. The glow of the moon startles Toris. It is rare to see the moon inside this ballroom. With Ivan.

_December 26, 1991._

“Toris,” Ivan breathes, “why did the girl ask for the flower?”

His eyes are unnerved. The violet bleeds out onto the floor beneath their feet, and Ivan slips then steadies himself.

“I don’t know,” Toris says. “It’s only a tale.”

The ballroom is hollow. Ivan smiles as he cries, smudging the gold floor, the moon glaring as he coughs. His nails dig into Toris’ thighs when he kneels, panting.

“I will become strong again,” Ivan gasps. “I will become new, and you shall be mine, yes?”

Toris says, “Just don’t hurt them.”

A fleeting thought whispers,

_Down this grave of yours._


End file.
